


i don't want to wake up (on my own anymore)

by bottleredhead



Series: that time a tumblr user/anon prompted me [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, based on personal experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The alarm clock standing on his bedside table reads 2:34 in a bright, blinking green in his room, 2:34 2:34 2:34 2:35.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to wake up (on my own anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of a tumblr prompt sent to me by an anon.
> 
> There you go, Nonny. Hope you like it!

It’s one of those nights when the insomnia is a great yawning beast in his chest. Its claws drag almost lazily against the inside of his lungs, discouraging him from doing anything productive as long as he’s up. Its harsh breath is an irritating constant in the back of his mind, as though reminding him whom he belongs to when darkness spreads across the sky.

The alarm clock standing on his bedside table reads 2:34 in a bright, blinking green in his room, 2:34 2:34 2:34 2:35.

He stares at it defiantly, at first, daring it to move faster. When that doesn’t work, he moves on to avoiding it for as long as he could before caving, only to be disappointed when barely two minutes pass the next time he steals a peek. Finally, he switches to despair, tired eyes pleading with the steadily rising numbers to slow down, to lull him to a sleep that seems so close, always at the edges but never near enough for him to grasp. To relish. To indulge in.

The cycle repeats itself, as it always does on nights like these. The beast continues breathing and scratching and just being, worse than any horror movie because at least then Enjolras can tell himself that it isn’t real, that the spatter of blood is just that, a spatter of fake blood on a green screen.

The beast, however, is not so easy to explain away.

It is not as though he can do anything to pass the time, either. No, not on nights like these, nights where his insomnia is at its worst and he picks up a topic only to drop it again because it is not enough, never enough to distract and disassociate himself.

When a long, exhaustive half an hour passes, Enjolras gives up. Rolling out of bed, he pads barefooted through the door and into the kitchen, where he finds his roommate propping himself up with a hand on his chin and the largest mug they have filled with coffee. Papers and open textbooks litter the counter, along with pens and highlighters missing their caps.

“Rough night?” asks Combeferre, pushing his stool away from the counter to survey Enjolras.

The blond takes a sip from the mug. “The worst. You know what it’s like.”

Combeferre gives him a weak smile, shaky but undeterred by the bags underneath his eyes and the exhaustion etched into his face and sewn into his bones beneath muscle tissue and sinew. They might not look anything like each other, but at the moment, they’re so identical in their enervation that being called anything other than lookalikes is laughable.

Silently, Combeferre stands up. He takes Enjolras’ hand and leads them to the largest couch in the living room, both not wanting to be in their beds when the monsters inside stretch and stake claim to their bodies. Seated, he grabs the blankets they’ve placed on the back of the couch for this very purpose and covers them entirely, except for their heads. They shift on the plush couch seats until they are horizontal, both on their sides and facing each other.

It is a natural reaction to wrap their arms around each other, heads resting on the arm of the couch. The television stuffed into a corner of the room like an afterthought stays switched off – it cannot help them tonight.

Enjolras concentrates on the warmth of Combeferre in his arms, centering his thoughts to revolve on nothing but his best friend. There is nothing romantic about them, their relationship entirely platonic if not shy of codependent. Combeferre is the one Enjolras complains to when Grantaire is being particularly annoying, and he is also the one who knows what Enjolras really means when he argues with the artist almost constantly yet cannot stop gravitating to him. Enjolras is the one who knows just how enamoured with Eponine Combeferre is, as well as being the one person who understands better than anyone that the bespectacled man isn’t as aloof or cold as comes off, not even close. It is an acknowledged fact between the two that if they do not end up in lasting relationships, they will forever stay platonic life partners.

Enjolras very wisely keeps his mind off the beast, which grows insistent before being dulled by the embrace, as though placed on mute. He’s still there, waiting and biding his time, but he’s not so meddlesome anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments welcome!
> 
> Title from Asleep by The Smiths, which is the favourite song of someone who means a great deal to me. The insomnia discussed is based on my own experience with chronic insomnia.
> 
> Find me at enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com


End file.
